


Unextinguished

by Vesperbat



Category: King of Fighters
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 14:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8289823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vesperbat/pseuds/Vesperbat
Summary: With his curse restored, Iori contemplates the source of his connection to Kyo. Orochi cannot take this from him.Set sometime between XIII and XIV. Not explicitly romantic, but sort of a prelude to any Iori/Kyo work I may do in the future.





	

**Author's Note:**

> As a warning, this is mostly just me exploring my current characterization of Iori since I haven't written him in about a decade. Not much happens. Posting it on the off chance someone might be ~~as desperate for content of this edgy obsessive loser as I am~~ interested.

Iori rubbed his face, and his eyes traveled over the silent world reflected in his mirror, half expecting to find the familiar pair hanging over his shoulder. The room behind him was empty, of course. They shouldn’t have existed in the first place. Granted, that made them good company. On mornings like this, stale and brittle as old Styrofoam, he wasn’t entirely convinced of his own existence. He splashed himself with water and retreated from the bathroom.

He picked up his bass guitar and fell into a chair. Solemn chords floated out the open window and seeped through the paper thin walls. If he'd had any neighbors left, they might have complained. Each time he glanced up from his hands, he found his apartment empty and dull.

Still as the dead, he thought, and his lip quirked. If the dead were supposed to be still, someone should probably inform them.

The smile faded. They were gone, and that was that. Let them rot. Life could return to its natural order now, or as close as it had ever been. Lately, a quiet moment was worth its weight in gold. And yet...

His fingers raked the strings, filling the void with melancholy jazz. The saxophone beckoned, but there was something about unaccompanied bass that suited his current mood. Good on its own – flawless execution – but lacking somehow, yearning for a counterpart.

As Iori’s mind settled on an image, he nearly snapped a string. He had done everything – everything – to keep his blood at bay. It was all tangled up, the blood and the flame and the serpent and the man who drew it forth. Just the scent of him was enough. Iori closed his eyes, recalling the taste of the smoke and heat that flickered in the air between them. Part of him stirred, the one he kept buried beneath layers of severity and solitude.

Orochi’s role had never been so clear to him. All this time, he had thought – Iori’s hand tightened around the guitar’s neck. Was it really only the coils of Orochi that bound their fates together? Was there nothing Iori could call his own?

No, it taunted. Nothing. Orochi would not rest until it had wound its way around everything he dared to hold dear and consumed every part of him. Iori dropped the guitar, lest he crush it. He had to push Orochi away. He would be the master of his own destiny, and someday, he would crush Orochi, once and for all. That day would have to come after, though. After…

Kyo.

Iori exhaled. He had been so sure for so long. Their opposition felt natural, as if it flowed through his veins. Then again, so did Orochi. Iori had spent too many nights wrapped in doubt, heavy with the weight of its whispers, trying to puzzle out where it stopped and he began. He tried to think back. How did he feel before the first Riot? Had he always wanted this? Did he still?

In the end, it didn’t matter. Kyo was his. He didn’t need a reason. Blood feud or no, Orochi had no right to him. It could have every other drop of Kusanagi blood on earth, but never Kyo’s. That was why he had to stay away, just for now. He needed to be in control, now more than ever.

Iori rose, fishing a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He took one in his lips and ignited it with a violet spark, fighting one addiction by soothing another. He wanted to see him. Now. His body ached for the mindless rhythm of fury and flame. It had to be him, though. The thought of tangling with arrogant punks in back alleys made Iori’s lip curl. Swatting away flies would only cause his blood to boil hotter.

Chill air blasted through the window and bit at his skin. He ground the cigarette into an ashtray and buttoned up his shirt. He would just have to endure it. Without Orochi, he would lose Kyo. With Orochi, he might lose himself. This was the path he had chosen – and yet, the choice was offered far too late. The fire that grew inside him could no longer be extinguished.

He turned away from the window and cut a swath of fire through the air. The blaze dissipated harmlessly, though it could have set off the smoke detector (had he not ripped the batteries out months ago). How many times had this fire licked across Kyo’s skin, and how many times had he felt the searing reply? He did it again and again, a practiced motion, and watched the flames dissolve. How many times had their color reflected in his eyes, mixing with the image of his rival? How many times had he seen himself mirrored in Kyo’s gaze, wreathed in an orange inferno?

Not enough. Not enough. Not nearly enough.


End file.
